


Swan Song

by NoelleAngelFyre



Series: Tiger, Tiger [8]
Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: F/M, First Time Love Scene, Romance, Self Harm/Mutilation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-18
Updated: 2015-08-18
Packaged: 2018-04-15 09:50:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,863
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4602246
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NoelleAngelFyre/pseuds/NoelleAngelFyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She is the pretty princess, the one too innocent to taint and too damaged to love.  He is the tiger in the night, the one who comes with claws bloody and teeth bared for more flesh.  He is hers, and she is his.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Swan Song

**Author's Note:**

> First and foremost, I want to thank everyone who has been commenting and reading and leaving kudos on this series. I know I don't often respond to your comments, but please know they absolutely make my day and I can't thank you enough for each and every one.
> 
> This is an immediate continuation from where "Prayer in Blood" left off. And yes, this is "Mature" for sexual content. I am very proud of this one, and I hope you all enjoy it. Thank you all again for your support!

It’s a strangely ironic replication of their first meeting. He’s in all black, she’s in a white dress, the moon is full and the night is cold. But she’s not a child anymore; she’s a woman now, in mind and body and soul. And he’s not here to collect on a debt or make a statement in blood. 

The silence doesn’t last long between them before she breaks it, asking in quiet and empty tones why he had to shoot Jim Gordon. She calls him “James” and it makes Victor’s jaw lock again, because it implies familiarity, and the question implies concern for his well-being. Her tone is flat, but her lips still ask the question, and he doesn’t want to hear or talk or think about Jim Gordon right now.

“He wouldn’t come quietly.” He answers; she picks up on his tone, quickly, and takes a slow step forward, eyes never blinking or leaving his face.

“You are upset.”

“No, I’m not.”

“Yes, you are.” She says, taking a small step away from the window. Another replication of moments passed between them—he’s lied and she’s picked up on it—but this time is different. This time, she calls him out. This time, she doesn’t stay silent and let him walk away. It should be a relief, but it’s not. He’s upset, needs to calm down but can’t. He feels like he has a paper cut buried somewhere deep, in an inconvenient place, and it’s driving him crazy. “Do you think I do not know you better than that?”

“You don’t know me.” He replies; the tightness in his voice is enough to make him cringe. He’s better than this, he has more control over himself and his mannerisms, can switch from being the gentleman to being something else, but only when he flips the switch, and he doesn’t let his emotions get the better of him. He’s better than this. _He_ ’s in control. He’s always in control. “You don’t know me, Iris. You never have.”

Silence, again, and he can feel his composure slipping. Slipping through his grasping fingers like water, and it’s making things worse. _No._ He is in control. _He_ is in control. Not her.

Her jaw locks further, and he can see her features paling and fingers curling inward. “What do you think you are accomplishing with this little temper tantrum?” she whispers, voice low but eyes flashing. “Standing there, acting as though you are a child who lost his favorite toy on the playground. What do you think _that_ proves, Victor?”

“Don’t talk to me like—”

“Like _what_?” she cuts in, taking a rather aggressive step forward. “Who do you think you are fooling, Victor? Do you think I am some empty-headed child? Do you actually believe I do not know you? Have you fed yourself that lie all this time?” another step, hands fisted at her sides. “You think I do not know the reason you stayed in my life all these years? You want something from me, and you have simply been biding your time, year after year, until the moment is right and you will take it.”

She comes even closer; he realizes, after a time, that his hands are clenched and she needs to stop walking, needs to back away, because she’s walking into the dragon’s den and she isn’t protected. “But you slipped, Victor. It started with my classmate, did it not? The one who tried to rape me? It started when I told you what he did to me, _every detail_ , and then you took him away, to a place where no one could hear him scream, and you ripped him apart, from head to foot, and threw what was left out like trash. And then you came into my room, touched my skin, kissed my skin, and laid with me on my bed, because your body ached and burned after what you did.”

She’s less than a foot away. “Do you think I did not know that? Did you think I did not feel it? That I could not feel _you_?”

The implication is about as unsubtle as anything, and he’s actually left speechless in the aftermath. Iris takes the opportunity accordingly, steps forward again, closes the distance a little more, and exhales sharply. 

“You wanted James to fight back.” she whispers. “You wanted a reason to hurt him, to make him suffer, because for six months, it has been him at my side, him in my life, and you were nowhere to be found. You wanted to hurt him for taking me away. But the truth remains. It is your fault. You have no one but yourself to blame.”

He acts impulsively, which he shouldn’t do and he almost never does, but tonight it happens. His hands grab her by the upper arms, drag her flush against him, and lock her in place. Her eyes widen a little, but there’s still no fear there. She just stares at him, just like that night, but there’s no fear. There’s…something else, but it’s not fear.

“You let him take my place.” He whispers, voice tight and strained to the point he barely recognizes it as his own. “You traded one out for the other, without care. Old for the new. You brought him in and threw me away.”

She reacts before he can keep a tight grip on her, before he realizes the grip on her arms isn’t actually holding her in place as well as he thought, and then there is a sharp sting across his face as her hand makes contact. He can feel another stinging sensation, and a tiny trickle of liquid heat. Her nails scratched him. She slapped him, and she scratched him, and she looks ready to do it again.

“Say it.” She hisses, eyes flashing in a way he hasn’t seen before, and she’s taking very intentional forward steps when she should be backing away. “Come out and say it. Speak the word, damn you. I am a whore. That is what you want to say, is it not? Well then, say it! Call me a whore, Victor! Say it! Say it _now_!”

The second blow to his face is even more unexpected than the first, and it actually upsets his footing. “You are a liar, and I am a whore. A perfect pair of sinners, are we not?” 

There’s a very small part of him waiting for tears to come, some hint of weakness or vulnerability that he might be able to use against her, but there’s none. Only rage. “You are a liar, and a murderer. A monster, some even call you, without a heart or a soul. And I never believed it, not for five—no, six years. Never once did I believe it. A killer, yes. A murderer, yes. But never a monster.”

Her hand clenches, as though ready to hit him yet again, and then she takes a cold step back. “But you are. You _are_ the monster they say, Victor. You took me in, drew me within your arms and showed me what it meant to be touched without violence and hatred. You taught me how to survive in this world. You showed me how to feel. Not just how to pretend, but how to feel! You made me feel and you made me happy! And then you took it all away from me. You left me and you lied to me. You _lied_ to me!! And for what? A stupid, foolish, idiotic lie because I made you feel. Do you think me such a child that I did not know?”

“Iris—”

“Do not touch me!” she doesn’t strike his face this time, but instead the hands trying to regain their grip on her. “ _Six months_ I have been left without your touch, without your presence. Six months I have been alone. Six months _you_ left me alone. Do not walk back into my life now and think it will all be the same, Victor! It is not! You left me. _You lied_.”

“It was meaningless—”

“Exactly!!” he should probably make her shut up, because she’s halfway screaming and if anyone overhears this, there will be way more explaining to do than he cares for. “It was meaningless, Victor! I touched you, I kissed your skin and I made your body ache and I made you want me and you just _could not_ have that! You are perfectly content to make _me_ want _you_ , but God forbid I break your perfectly-ordered control and make _you_ want _me_!”

She suddenly takes another step forward, resembling a wolf on the attack, teeth bared and ready to take his throat, and he barely catches her wrists before she removes his face with her nails. The grip doesn’t do much to control her; she’s still fighting him, clawing for her freedom, and he’s one wrong move away from snapping both wrists like twigs. He doesn’t want to; she works so much with her hands and they are among her finest features, but if she gives him no other choice…

“And I do, Victor.” Her tone suddenly drops, and it’s a little unnerving when she was screaming only a second ago. “I do want you, and yet I cannot make you want me. For some time now, I have thought, perhaps, it is my fault. That I am not beautiful enough, or worthy of your desire. Perhaps I am not. But maybe _that_ is punishment enough for you. To know the little freak you raised desires you.”

She takes another step forward; it’s not as aggressive a movement, but there is still something in her gaze that puts him even more on edge than when she was ready to shred his face with bare hands. A serpent’s gaze, sharp and piercing and deadly and unblinking. “You wanted to destroy me.” She continues in the same whisper, lips parting now and then to flash white teeth, not in a smile but a wolf baring its fangs. “You wanted all of me, and I gave it to you willingly. But still it was not enough to warrant your favor. You created me, sculpted me to perfection, made me yours and only yours. And now you have grown tired of me. And you have cast me away.”

“Iris—” 

“Last night,” she continues, in the same tone, with the same unsettling gleam in her eyes, “I would have begged and pleaded with you, Victor. Six months I have been forced to live without you, when I do not know how, when it has killed me little by little, day by day. Last night, even this morning as I was put on a train out of town and as far from Gotham as it could possibly take me, I imagined begging my creator, my master, for his mercy. I envisioned falling to my knees when I saw you again, begging you to be kind and cut out my heart before it killed me.”

The image—taking a knife in one hand while resting the other on her cheek, stroking the skin gently and tenderly, then watching the blade disappear into pale and smooth flesh, the trickle of blood gradually coming faster and faster as the blade sinks deeper, until he finds his prize and extracts it for his own—does nothing to cool the fire in his blood. Actually, it makes things much, much worse. Primarily because he knows, with her proximity, she can feel everything.

“You hurt me, Victor.” She hisses the words like a curse on his soul. “Perhaps the only way I can hurt you in return is to want you. Or is that not punishment enough? Do I have to _love_ you as well? Will that suffice?”

“Stop.” He says, the word barely a hiss; he’d had a thread of hope that the low tone might be enough of a warning, but it’s not. She doesn’t stop. She hasn’t heard an animal’s warning growl or a command to be obeyed, not anymore. She’s heard a slip in his composure. Her lips thin, curl into a bitter expression, and she exhales slowly with a nod.

“So that is it, then?” she whispers, throat tightening around the words. “Desire and lust, you are familiar with. Desire and lust, you welcome and understand, and you can use those as manipulation in your favor. They alone are not enough to destroy you. But love…” 

She exhales again, tighter this time, and her fingers into fists, clenching down deeper, deeper, into her palms, “I asked you once, remember? _Could you ever love me?_ You never answered. Now I know why. You cannot _love_ me, because you do not _want_ me.”

He’s always known and appreciated her complete lack of tact. She says things as they are, the way she sees them and accordingly expresses whatever opinions she feels ought to be expressed on a given matter. She possesses no real filter, only a very vague—and rarely utilized—concept of what things are inappropriate to be said in certain situations. He’s always known this; encouraged this particular trait, even, because if nothing else, it is incredibly amusing to watch her trample over all notions of social etiquette.

But this is different. This is rage, but calculated rage, and there isn’t a word she’s thrown at him without purpose and intent and deliberate choice. This is the proverbial game of knife-throwing, only her aim is true and each blow has hit its target, and it cuts deeper and deeper and deeper. She’s working her way under his skin, slowly but surely, like a parasite, like an infection, like a paper cut that just can’t be reached, and he has the sudden urge to clench down around her throat, tighter and tighter, until every last breath has been stolen by his hands and there’s only a bruised and beautiful corpse left in his arms.

“Why?” she suddenly demands, hands clenching and unclenching in his grip, eyes flashing, and the cold calm disappears in the wake of renewed rage. “ _Why_ can you not just want me? Why are you so ashamed of me? Why am I your secret? Why can I not—?”

“ _Stop!_ ” he snarls at her; every last bit of his supposed control is gone, tossed out the window, departed for the foreseeable future, and he really doesn’t like being this way. The usual satisfaction to showing his teeth is the instant recoil from his prey, the way they shrink back and cower and whimper for mercy. Iris doesn’t even give him that. She matches him, and while she still can’t get to his face, she manages to use enough force against their joined hands that she strikes his chest.

“Then kill me!” she returns, without pause, with eyes flashing and blazing and pupils blown wide with rage. “Kill me like you should have long ago! Kill me and be rid of me! Just…”

Her voice breaks around the next breath, and he realizes she’s crying. Not little tears, but streaming rivers that occasionally strike his hand in cold drops. And she’s lost her voice, the raging tension ebbing away, leaving her slack and only upright by the grip he still has on her. A few times, he hears her try and speak, but all that comes out is a broken sob. She’s crying. She knows how to cry.

The thought loosens his grip, and she drops to the carpet on both knees, hands bracing the impact, head bowed and hair a dark curtain around her face. The sobs are more audible than her screams of fury. She’s crying. She’s crying and she’s clutching her side and—

Wait. No, not her side. That’s her stomach. He blinks, takes a careful step forward, and his eyes find the slowly spreading stain along the white fabric. Red. Red dots, red splotches, red lines slowly appearing and spreading across white.

He vaguely registers the sound of his knees hitting the carpet beside her, but his attention is directed more at reaching out, grabbing the fabric in one hand, fighting her off when she tries to stop him, and jerking it up. It’s an improper view, albeit one he’s had before, and this time his eyes are greeted not with old scars from childhood, but fresh marks pulsing out thin rivers of blood.

These are longer. She didn’t just push down into her skin this time. She buried her nails deep and then dragged and dragged and dragged. _This_ is true self-mutilation. This is the rage and the vicious anger and the tears she won’t show anyone else, tucked away inside, hidden, kept carefully contained within a cage. But the monster tried to escape, tried to claw its way to freedom. _She_ almost released it.

“Why?” he finally asks, voice still a whisper as he watches the flow. Her blood is just as he’s always envisioned: pure and clean and such a vibrant color. _Beautiful._

She doesn’t answer for a time, only lets the tears fall hard and fast and choke on the sobs she’s trying to swallow back. After five minutes, the silence grates his nerves and he grabs her shoulders, drags her close, and makes her look at him. “Tell me _why_ , Iris.”

“Why?” she repeats, with another wave of fresh tears. “ _Why?_ How dare you ask me that, Victor? After what you did to me? After the way you…” again, the words die, and she slumps against his grip once more. She drops her gaze, briefly, and then releases a shuddering exhale and looks back at him.

“Everyone lies to me, Victor.” She slowly whispers. “Everyone. And I can take it. I understand it and accept it. I lie to them in return. Everyone hurts me, and if given the chance, I would hurt them without a second thought. But not you. Not my tiger.”

_My tiger._ The words burn a violent path through his veins, settle somewhere deep within his core, and the relief is overwhelming. She hasn’t forgotten anything. She hasn’t replaced him. He’s still hers. Her tiger. Nothing has changed.

“Sweet girl,” he breathes, collecting her in his arms, tight to his chest, without space between them, and the relief pulses strong once more when her hands fight with his jacket, jerking buttons until the lapels part, and then weave their way inside to fit against his shoulder blades, only the thin fabric of his shirt remaining between them, “My precious one, my perfect one, my sweet girl. Shhh…it’s alright.”

“You lied to me.” She whispers again; her body is quivering against him, and there are a few tears still falling and collecting at his collar. “You lied to me, Victor. You hurt me.”

“I know.” he kisses her forehead, her temple, her crown, everywhere he can reach. “I know, Iris, I know. I’m sorry. I’ll never hurt you again. I promise, never again. I’m sorry.” One hand slips into her hair, fingers tangling and relearning the texture of silken curls. “Hush, sweet girl, hush. It’s alright.”

Silence, once more, while her tears dry and her body slowly settles and her breathing calms. And then, her lips rising to his ear and her fingers curled tight in his shirt, she breaks it with a whisper. “He never replaced you.” Her voice is soft, but there is no mistaking the earnest tone and honesty that is practically dripping from each word. “No one can ever replace my tiger.”

Without warning, her head tilts and she kisses his neck. It’s too deliberate to be accidental, and she lingers too long for him to think it was a passing fancy. The fire that runs unchecked through every nerve in his body is scalding, molten, and he’s not quick enough to swallow back a shuddering breath. She’s never done this before. She’s embraced him, tucked herself against him, held his hand, but not this. She’s never kissed him, not there, and she’s never—

“Iris, stop.” The words sound respectable enough, but there is absolutely no conviction in his tone and, consequently, no way she’ll actually think he wants her to obey him. Actually, he might do something rash if she _does_ obey him.

Sure enough, she doesn’t. Instead, she kisses him there again, then continues down to his pulse—she must be able to feel it hammering against her lips—while one hand drifts away from his back and settles on his arm. Again, too deliberate, too purposeful, too much. 

“Sweet girl,” it takes more effort than it should to speak; this is not the first time he’s been touched by a woman, “what are you doing?”

“Wanting you.” She answers, as simple as that, and the fingers on his sleeve are already teasing the fabric upward, inch by inch. “You did not let yourself want me, even when you had the chance. You had me in your arms, in my bed, and you held yourself at bay. You had me at your fingertips, practically naked and vulnerable, and still you pulled away. I can only assume, then, you do not want a submissive lamb. You want a mate, one who will not lie docile beneath you but take you when she wants you.”

He was doing fine. Yes, in a rather unexpected predicament but still fine and in control. Then he realizes the hand on his sleeve has it up to his elbow, scars exposed. His newest one gleams red in the light, and when she takes note of it, there is a look in her eyes he has never seen before.

“Iris—”

Her lips are there, on the skin, on the scars, before he can stop her, before he even realizes she’s moved. This time, there is no timidity or delicacy to each kiss; these are intent, devouring, consuming, hungry. One hand on his wrist keeps the limb at bay, her one last demonstration of insecurity—keeping him in place with the thought that he could still move away. And he could; he knows he could, and he probably should, because she’s not stopping, and what she is doing to him is producing some very…obscene effects, and a bedroom floor in his employer’s estate is not the place for this…

But _oh_ this is sweet torture. Exquisite torture, the kind only she would think to inflict. Lips, tongue, teeth, all gracing his scars with gestures that are sensual and erotic and he very possible could just come undone from this and this alone.

“Iris,” he tries again, but then he feels the slightest prick of her teeth, nothing more than a nip, but the simple fact that she _bit_ him sends an unsteadying surge of heat through his system.

“Lie to me, Victor.” She breathes, lips moving soft against his skin, brushing over his scars. “Lie to me again, now, when I can see you. When I can feel you. Lie to me.”

He has to get a grip, has to get it together. This is absolutely not the time or place. If Don Falcone happens to hear or see them—

“Lie to me.” She repeats, tracing one set with the tip of her tongue, one…two…three— _oh_ , that’s the newest, the twenty-eighth mark, and it’s not fully healed. It’s still fresh, still sensitive, for all he knows it could still be bloody.

The thought alone snaps his eyes open, gaze immediately finding her lips and his arm and the scars. It is. He has no idea when or how the scabbing broke open and the mark began bleeding fresh, but it is and she’s kissing it and her tongue is tracing its shape, lapping lightly at the blood. Her lips are stained red and he has a violent desire to lose his fingers in her hair, grab her and pull her lips to his and…

“ _Lie to me_ , Victor.”

“Damn it, Iris,” he hisses; some lingering concept of better judgment tells him to jerk away before this goes any further and he’s no longer responsible for himself, but her grip is tight and her lips warm and smooth and her tongue… “Stop. Stop this. You’re driving me insane.” 

His wrist is suddenly released, her hand moves to his chest and pushes, hard and without warning, and then he is no longer upright but flat on his back, with a dark-eyed, fully alert, and completely coherent Iris leaning over him, legs draped gracefully and purposely over his hips, and there have been very, very few times in his life when he was so thoroughly stripped of control, in every aspect. There have been even fewer times, to his immediate recollection, when he was this aroused.

“Iris…” there’s some half-hearted protest, or warning, or something along those lines, catching at the end of his voice, but whatever it is, it’s never spoken. She leans down, stretching and unwrapping her limbs, fitting slender curves to his body until they are matched. Soft skin, warm and living flesh pressed firm to his, lips resuming their attention along his neck and slowly descending; her lips quickly come to his chest and begin devoting attention there, fingers teasing the buttons on his shirt until all are open to the waistband. At some point, he registers the feel of her hair in his grasp and realizes he has both hands lost amongst the inky locks, massaging her scalp, dragging fingers through the dark mass, relearning the silken texture over and over again.

She makes a steady trek down his chest, and then back up to the other side of his neck. He can smell her skin, the salt of drying tears, the faint metallic tinge of blood, and something unique to her. It’s making his head spin, cracks spreading throughout his carefully-composed demeanor, and when her tongue flicks out to taste his pulse, he can’t—or doesn’t try to—swallow back a low groan.

When one hand leaves his chest, fingertips ghosting trails along his chest and sides and down one hip, he feels the tension in his limbs, feels the quivering tremor like a pulled violin string, the anticipation and burning need overriding his better judgment to stop her before she goes any further, before this truly passes the point of no return. When her touch glides inward and traces over him, the sound that claws its way out of his throat doesn’t sound like him. It doesn’t even sound human. It sounds like an animal declaring its need for his mate.

Her lips part against his throat, a warm and shuddering exhale coating over the skin, and she repeats the gesture with more pressure and deliberation this time, again, and again, and again. Curious touches, exploratory, her scientist’s mind colliding with primal urges, and it’s awakening something equally carnal inside him, a beast discontent to be locked away in its cage now that it has its mate so close, so willing, _so very willing_ …

Her fingers make short work of the clasp and zipper, after only a short hesitation, and then suddenly there is no fabric barrier between her skin and his, only her hand against him, flesh to flesh. His head snaps back into the carpet and the next sound that leaves him truly sounds like an animal in heat. He thinks it might be enough to snap her back to coherency, but it’s not. She tilts her head and takes advantage of the newly-bared skin, pressing her lips there again and again and again, while her hand continues its ministrations. She’s no longer exploring or innocently curious. This is very deliberate, intentional, and it’s rapidly unraveling every thread of his sanity.

“You do want me.” Iris whispers at the base of his jaw amidst a soft moan; her tone sounds awed, overwhelmed, and relieved. “You do want me, my tiger. You do.”

He can’t take much more of this; it is absurd, that she should be able to get this much response from him, to the point that he’s ready to split at the seams, but she is and if she doesn’t stop soon—

“No.” she suddenly says, pressing down firmly on his chest with the other hand, when he starts to shift and one hand tries to grab her wrist. “No, my tiger. Do not stop me. Not now. Let me have you, just like this. Let me want you. Let yourself want me. Give yourself over to me.”

She is making it incredibly difficult to argue the point, between her words, her covetous tone, and the way she’s touching him and refusing to stop. While there is a part of him that knows this needs to stop, the rest of him would sooner amputate a vital limb than stop her. Jealousy demands to know how she can touch him this way, how she knows how to touch him, to demand proof that he is her first and only, but his mouth is dry and his tongue feels like lead and the words won’t come. 

And then, without warning, her lips and tongue replace her hand, and there is no hope for what is left of his composure. It disappears, vanishes, and every inch of him becomes wholly devoted to sensation, to the way her innocence has somehow molded and meshed perfectly with darker urges, the kind he didn’t even know she was capable of housing. She’s always been so innocent, accepting of the uglier things in life but never affected by them, and now…

Both hands tangle in her hair, once again, and because there is grace in accepting this defeat with dignity, he gives up the fight accordingly. She seems to sense, or even feel, his surrender, and from the way her gestures grow bolder, more insistent, more devouring, she is pleased. Very, very pleased.

“Iris…” He can distantly hear a voice that somewhat resembles his own, a muffled and slurred sound beneath the violent rush of blood in his ears, but there is no calculation or poise to the words being spoken. “Iris, sweet girl…” his grip in her hair is probably painful, but she’s paying no mind to it; if anything, he wonders if it’s encouraging her. “ _Iris_ …”

He makes some attempt to be a gentleman, or something thereto, and tries to pull her away before it’s over and he comes completely undone. She responds by clamping both hands over his hips and renewing her efforts. The grip he has on her hair means nothing; now, it’s just an anchor for him to use as release hits him like a bullet shower, one after the other after the other. 

When it’s over, every limb feels sapped of strength and mobility, and he’s taking very slow and very measured breaths because he refuses to gasp and gulp down air and pant like a schoolboy with a whore. Iris settles against him once more, tucking herself into the forms of his body with fingers playing idly along his bare chest. The nerves in his skin are hyper sensitive, and even the lightest touch results in a vibrant tingle.

When she slowly shifts upright, the warmth fading away with her movement, instinct demands he grab her and keep her in place. He still has no working tongue, but his sharp gaze speaks for him. She rests a gentle hand over the one he has tight around her shoulder, gaze calm, eyes steady.

“Peace, my tiger.” She breathes, fingertips caressing his knuckles. “Peace. Our night is not done.”

Her touch is soothing, relaxing. He has missed it, the way she calms him so easily and tames the beast. It is a unique sensation, but a very pleasant one. The grip relaxes; fingers make a slow and delicate path beneath her neckline to find bare skin. Each brush inspires a soft breath from her lips, musical to the ears.

“Who else?” he slowly whispers, the unavoidable question finally working its way off his tongue. One name, one more mark. If anyone has touched her, looked about her skin and body, felt her touch…if anyone has ever experienced that, their death will be slow.

“Your jealousy is neither amusing nor endearing.” Iris sighs, shaking her head. “Just because you have found release and pleasure in another does not mean I have done the same.”

She pulls back, enough that he can see her gaze—not angry, per say, but not pleased, to say the least. “I can smell them, Victor. All over you, I can smell them. There is no other on _my_ skin, and yet you ask such a ridiculous question?”

Oh, which point to address first? “Those were not the actions of a blushing virgin, Iris.”

“I may not blush, but not other hands have touched me, nor I them.” She tightens fingers around the hand he’s moved loosely to one side of her neck. “They would have been, at best, pale reflections of my true desire.”

A pause follows; when she speaks again, her tone is much softer. “I know only how to desire _you_ , my tiger. And it hurts me, almost more than I can bear, to know the same does not hold true for you. It is…easy for you to desire another.”

His hold tightens, not enough to damage, but there will be some bruising come morning, and he drags her closer, closer, _closer_ … “Not the same.” He whispers, tone low and intent. “Never the same, my sweet one.”

Each breath catches, tight in her throat, a gasp beneath his fingers, and her eyes are alight once more. “How?” she finally breathes, lips quivering with the word. His hand shifts, on impulse, and slowly drags his thumb along her lower lip. Perfection.

“It may not be the same to you, Victor.” She continues. “But it is everything to me. I need you in a way that terrifies me, yes, but it is all that keeps me alive. It is all that has dragged me through the days, for six months, with the prayer you would return to me. I tasted no food, I desired no water, I sought little sustenance to keep my heart beating. I survived because of you. My desire for you, my need for you…even my hate for you. It was all that kept me alive.”

“If there is a way to make you need me this way, Victor,” her grip tightens, and as she leans down, closer, her lips draw nearer until he shares her breath, “tell me. Show me. You are everything to me, my tiger. Teach, parent, protector. But it is not enough. Not when every,” he becomes acutely aware of her hand taking hold and guiding his lower, past her neck and shoulder, “last piece of me,” she draws his hand down the line of her clavicle and follows the natural shape between her breasts; the soft curves are just beneath his touch, fingertips brushing their shape through flimsy fabric barriers, heartbeat pounding without pause within her chest, “ _screams_ out for need of you.”

There are, truly, limits to every man’s patience and self-control. He thought he was above every other man, that he was in absolute control of himself without exception. But clearly he isn’t, because Iris says nothing she doesn’t mean, nothing but truth and unchecked honesty, and the image alone of how raw, how consuming, and how violent her desire for him is…that’s just a little more than he can take.

“Iris…” his thoughts must be written across his face, because she abruptly stands and he wonders if it was somehow too much, that she now needs to put space between them. But then her hands take hold of the stained nightgown and drag it overhead; her underwear is next and follows accordingly, dropped to the side, and she settles on the mattress edge. The trepidation and anxiety he remembers from before are gone. She shows no shyness, no fear. She is beautiful—unbearably, unfairly, sinfully beautiful—and she is secure and comfortable and confident in her own skin. And she is wanting, and hungry.

“Come to me, my tiger.” She whispers, arms outstretched. “Come to me. Want me.”

_Want_ seems a gross understatement. If his blood was on fire before, it is now an inferno in his veins. He is unfamiliar with this, all of this. Submission, even if in black leather, is what he knows, what he’s had in bed. He has always been in control, always dominant. But there is no level of denial that could possibly make him believe _he_ is the one in control right now. Even she lies docile beneath him, there will be fire in her eyes and she’ll be the one pulling his strings.

“Why,” he whispers, once the distance has been closed and he’s standing between her legs with fifteen different ways in which he could pay homage to those perfect limbs running through his mind, “are you so damned beautiful?”

Her lips curve into a lovely little expression of both delight and coy amusement. Both hands rest flat to his chest, spreading outward to nudge his shirt aside and away. “Galatea.” She murmurs.

His next breath is more a sigh than anything; he slowly settles on both knees, dragging slow fingers up her ankle, eyes tracing the delicate shape, and up the slender curves of each calf to the inner knee. His mind’s eye paints a picture of his hands creating these perfect forms and shapes from clay—fresh, untouched, virgin clay, white as snow—until there was no flaw to be found. The sculptor, and his most perfect creation.

He pauses for a moment, hands resting at her hips, eyes locked on her stomach and those absolutely exquisite scars. The blood has dried, but the fresh marks are still vibrant and radiant in color. He could worship them for hours alone.

Iris moans softly when he leans forward and presses his mouth to one scar at her left side, a broken arch running nearly to the top of her hip. He traces the shape slowly, with the tip of his tongue, catching and savoring the lingering metallic taste. It entices his hunger, his cravings, and he continues from one to the next, leaving none untouched. The initial tenancy fades quickly; he has never been one to deny his desires and he won’t start now, not with her so willing and equally needy beneath him. Her hands glide across his brow and down to his neck, nails grazing the skin pleasantly, body arching in a delicate dance, lips parting with soft gasps and broken moans as he devours without shame.

When he has finished with her scars, leaving her breathless and shivering from his attentions, he continues upward, along the paths of her ribcage, to her breasts. She whimpers, not from pain but with need, as he quickly replaces closed lips with tongue, the light grazing of teeth, and the deliberate press of fingertips. His free hand settles at her mid-back, keeping her balanced, and each sound she makes is more urgent, more desperate. Jealousy has not yet been quelled; he knows it will still linger, with questions and doubts of whether or not she has been touched here or there before this night, until he is inside her and he feels the pain take hold of her body, however briefly, in an irrefutable testament to her virginity, and that he is the one to take it from her.

The lovely whimpers she has been giving him transform into something else, something entirely different and exquisite in its composition, when his hand leaves her breasts, trails along her thigh, and slips between her quivering legs. He doesn’t bother hiding his satisfaction, releasing a low and hungry groan at the slick heat at his fingertips. She’s sworn there has been no other, he has no desire to doubt her, but…if there _is_ another, God Himself couldn’t protect him.

“Victor…” his name sounds like a prayer, a plea, and a scream all at once. She wraps one hand around his shoulder and the other across his neck, clinging and clutching to him, only him. As he continues, each caress and stroke deliberate and making her body quiver, balance becomes more difficult, and he secures his free arm around her, steadying and yet intent on completely unraveling her.

When she suddenly shakes violently and presses her forehead into his collarbone, he smiles and nuzzles into her hairline. “There?”

She nods, still shaking, and clutches at him with renewed desperation. “There. Please. It…it feels…”

“Go on.” He breathes, redirecting all attention to that one spot, the one that makes her gasp and cry out so sweetly. “Tell me, sweet girl. Tell me how it feels.”

She whines, half in frustration and half with a need that has yet to be satisfied. “Victor…”

“Tell me, Iris.” He continues, undeterred. “I want to hear it.”

“Impossible man…” she mutters, fingers clawing lightly at his skin and one leg trying to wrap around his. Then, her bare skin brushing fabric, she growls and scratches her way down to his waistline. “Off. Take them off. I want to see you.”

“You’re feisty tonight.” He smirks. “I thought patience was your virtue.”

She growls again, all finesse gone; this time, her hand slips past the open zipper and catches him off-guard with a firm, confident grip and deliberate strokes. “Need I say more, Victor?” she whispers in his ear, nipping the lobe to emphasize the point, “Take me, _now_ , while you still have the chance.”

He hears the unsubtle threat in there, and while he knows she has no desire to walk away, he is no longer confident enough to say she won’t, just to make her point. And he does so enjoy this side of her, this succubus with a face of purity. More to the point, he’s past his own levels of endurance, and he’s tired of guessing whether she is or isn’t lying to him. With little warning, he rids himself of remaining clothing, grabs her hips, nudging her legs apart with his knees, and fits his body to hers. Before he even enters her, he has the answer he needs: her hunger breaks, just a little, and her breath catches tight in her throat at the mere press of naked skin. 

He has never, admittedly, had a virgin in his bed before, and he’s grateful for it. This is something unique to them, to her and him, and he halts all movement to simply take it in. Her body is still wanting, her need still unfulfilled, but her teeth nip at her lower lip, and her grip has tightened a little, and her body is quivering for a different reason. She has never felt a man before, not like this, save for one spineless little worm who tried to take this from her, steal this moment before it could be freely given. If he continues, just like this, there is a chance she could see that wretched boy, not him, not her tiger, and _that_ is unacceptable.

Inspired, he keeps hold of her hips and twists slowly onto his back. She stumbles a bit, losing balance and resting heavily against his chest, but his grip is an anchor. Breathing shakily, her eyes find his, questions present even if she won’t yet ask.

“Take me, Iris.” He whispers, gaze blazing even in the dim light around them. “Take me inside, and ride me.”

Her sigh is musical, heavenly, and the confusion, the uncertainty, fades with her next breath. He watches, unblinking, as she finds her balance once again, legs fitted to either side, and slowly lowers. There is a moment, a flash when her jaw tightens and her brow furrows, and the pain ripples through her frame. He exhales slowly, tightly, and his fingers clench down a little into her hips, leaving their mark on white and smooth flesh. Yes. Finally. _Finally._

She moves before he’s fully prepared, hips rocking with unashamed intent, and he loses another groan. Again, and again, and again. It takes a bit of effort to keep his gaze focused, but he wouldn’t dare lose sight of Iris moving above him, dark hair a damp and heavy veil down her back and spilling over one shoulder or the other as she sways, leans forward, falls back and arches her spine; eyes dark, pupils wide and blotting out the pale blue; lips parted for each breath, red and full and smooth and just begging to be taken with his own…

He’s not a fool, nor is he ignorant, nor is he blind and deaf. His reputation amongst the family’s enemies is widespread and he has worked hard to ensure its existence: the monster, the figure who emerges from shadows and strikes without warning, without hesitation, and without mercy. The one summoned only for special prizes, for those Don Falcone seeks to not just kill but eradicate from existence, for his are the victims who disappear for weeks, months, and if they are found, not even a mother could recognize their faces. He knows his reputation and he is rightfully proud of it.

Amongst the family, he has a similarly infamous reputation, albeit a little different. Within the family, he is indeed the one sent out for special missions, and when his name is dropped in conversation, those who hear it know Don Falcone is not out for blood alone, but to send a message dripping in sadism and unspeakable agony. But he is also the oddity, the freak, the one who must be acknowledged for his position and high regard in Don Falcone’s eyes, but there is little honesty to the respect he is shown, and he knows it. He is resented, he is abhorred, and he is considered little more than an animal.

“Victor,” her voice breaks into his thoughts, and yet reminds him of just why they had strayed to begin with. They have always been a contradiction, he and his girl—the monster in shadows and the orphan with a pretty face and delicate features—but never more so than right now. She will always be the orphan, the one too damaged to truly love, too infamous to refuse, and too intelligent to dismiss, but the child has become a woman. Her dark hair and pale skin and vibrant eyes make her exotic, the forbidden fruit, and her reputation make her the desirable wife for too many men. But, by her own admission, she wants none of them. She wants the freak, the beast, the monster. She wants him. Only him.

“Am I beautiful, my tiger?” Iris whispers, breathless, hands clutching at his shoulders, “Am I beautiful for you?”

He sits upright, arms around her waist, and the sudden shift makes her moan, and arch, and rock desperately against him for a deliriously wondrous moment. “You are exquisite, sweet girl.” He whispers, eyes tracing her parted lips, tongue flicking against his teeth for want of her taste, mouth tingling to learn her kiss, and then he exhales slowly, collecting his thoughts, and grasps her closer. “And you are _mine_.”


End file.
